


nine crimes.

by orphan_account



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Broken Reader, Comfort, Confessions, Dark Arthur, Dark reader, F/M, Held Prisoner, Hurt, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kidnapped, Love, Loving Arthur, Protective Arthur, Requited Love, Uncle Hosea, Vengeful Reader, jail break, taken hostage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-26 20:17:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20748122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: You and Arthur are captured by The Pinkerton’s. You’d known it was only a matter of time, but instead of fighting them tooth-and-nail for an escape, you tell them you’ll go willingly, without a fight or argument, as long as they let Arthur go - safe and unharmed.Arthur takes this as well as you’d expect, but it doesn’t matter - you have the final say and The Pinkerton’s stay true to their word, not sending as much as a single man to follow Arthur to the camp.Of course, Arthur tracks you down and rescues you from their clutches, taking down half of their men in the process, but he never could’ve imagined how much damage they could do to you within the span of three weeks.•TL:DR - You pledge your life to The Pinkerton’s upon capture to save and protect Arthur, but the damage they do within the weeks that they have you - in the weeks that Arthur scours each and every square mile of Texas for you, refusing to eat or sleep until you’re back home - changes you irreparably.





	nine crimes.

**Author's Note:**

> T R I G G E R W A R N I N G .
> 
> Rape is implied/referenced to in this fic, and is briefly described in a flashback. If this is a sensitive topic and/or hits too close to home, please tread carefully or avoid altogether.

_ ** i.  ** _

Milton undresses you with his beady eyes, the bastard licking his lips hungrily, the corners of his mouth curling appreciatively. 

Arthur’s fingers twitch above his holster - which is useless, seeing as how they stripped both of you of your weapons - teeth clenched so hard that there was a possibility he had chipped a tooth. 

But then your hand curls around his bicep, squeezing gently, and the anger nearly dissipates. 

Nearly.

"Agent Milton."

The bastard hums in response, indulging in the way his name rolls off your tongue.

Arthur is  seething .

"Do I have your word that if I stay with you, you’ll let Arthur go - unharmed?"

Arthur’s surprised that his neck didn't snap from how fast his head whirled to face you.

" What?!" 

You don’t spare him a glance, don’t look remotely perturbed by what you’ve just said, making Arthur wonder if you’d actually said it. 

There isn’t a chance in hell that you’d actually consider staying with this piece of—

"I give you my word, darling. Pledge your loyalty -  your life \- to us, and we’ll never so much as think about this wretch again.“ 

Pledge your life? 

What the  hell  does that mean?

Arthur bristles with rage, snarling out, "Like hell she'll pledge her life to a piece of shit like—”

"I will." 

The blood in his veins freezes cold.

Arthur can't process this. 

His mouth opens to intervene, to negate what you’ve just said, because this is just fucking ludicrous. 

But before a single syllable can make it out of his throat, you clear yours.

"The one and only thing I ask of you, Agent Milton, is a few minutes to say goodbye to my friend here. Seems like I won’t be seeing him anytime soon."

Milton is skeptical, casting a disapproving glance at Arthur, who‘s  shaking with unbridled rage. 

The smirk that manifests across the bastard’s face nearly made Arthur lose it, but then Milton purrs out, “Of course, love. But only if you’ll do me the pleasure of calling me ‘Andrew’.” 

Arthur’s about to go on a rampage - weapons or not - decimating each and every last one of these degenerates to pieces, starting with the smug piece of shit that was eyeing you like a prime slice of meat, raze this place to the ground before you rest a hand over his, squeezing tightly, smiling something that might’ve looked authentic to anyone else, but Arthur’s been with you for so long that he knows it’s strained, forced.

“Of course... Andrew.”

The son of a bitch beams like he’s won the lottery, licking his lips at the way your tongue curled around his name.

Arthur’s curling his fingers around your wrist, dragging you outside the cabin before he can say anything else.

The frigid night air slices through his clothes, but Arthur doesn't think that sub-zero temperatures would have been enough to cool down the rage boiling beneath his skin.

He doesn't stop walking when you’re outside. 

Doesn't stop walking when he hears you sigh disappointedly, wearily. 

"Arthur."

Does little more than tighten his grip around your wrist when you dig your boots firmly in the soil, refusing to budge an inch. 

Arthur huffs, irritated by the childish display of petulance. 

"Arthur, don't be a fool."

This is what makes him stop.

Makes his body go eerily still, like the deathly calm before the catastrophic storm.

"You reckon I'm the fool?" Arthur asks quietly, uncharacteristically so. 

His grip slackens for a moment, before he's turning around and using the hold to tug you to him sharply.

"I ain't the one who just pledged her life to a fuckin’ Pinkerton!" 

You sigh. 

Like this was the reaction you’d been expecting, but that didn't mean you’re anymore enthusiastic to deal with it. 

"Arthur..."

His jaw clenches at the inflection of your voice. 

"Absolutely fuckin’ not. This ain’t a question. This ain't even a discussion. You an’ me - we're gettin’ out. Right now."

Weary green eyes peer at him through thick, long lashes. 

God, you look so tired. 

Arthur had nearly forgotten.

In the midst of all this chaos, everything else had faded into white noise.

Neither of you have had a decent night's sleep in days, running from bounty hunters, O’Driscoll’s and Pinkerton’s.

Tired is a look that you wear more often than not as a self-proclaimed insomniac.

But this is a different kind of tired.

This was the tired that seeped into your bones. 

This was the tired that couldn't be fixed with just one night's sleep.

"Arthur, they have our horses. The only way off this gargantuan ranch is without a barrage of bullets is riding our horses outta here. Which, funnily enough, will be returned to us - well, you - as long as I stay."

Arthur can't stand how fucking calm you’re handling this. 

As if this situation’s been running through your head since the day those grimy bastards had put bounties over their heads. 

As if this solution wasn't as horrific as it really was.

Arthur leans in close, looking deeply into your eyes, his voice a deep rumble from his chest. 

"I won't let him have you. I won't . Do you have  any idea what he plans to do with you?"

A chuckle escapes from your lips, but something about it sounds off. 

Forced.

Strained.

Weary.

"I have a few colorful assumptions, yeah."

"You ain’t goin’ with him."

"That isn't your decision to make."

"The hell it ain’t! It's been you and me for five years, Buchanan! I’ll die before that bastard tears us apart!"

You don’t say anything, find something incredibly interesting in the soil beneath your boots, anything to not face that devastated, icy stare.

"... Did you really expect me not to put up a fight?"

_Did you really think I wouldn’t fight for you?_

Arthur doesn't mean for his voice to come out so  small .

"Of course I did. You're a stubborn ass. I just didn't think it'd be this difficult,” you laugh, but just like the chuckle, it doesn’t sound right, has his insides twisting into intricate knots because he knows that you cover-up your anxiety with humor. 

Arthur takes hold of your shoulders, forcing you to look up at him. 

Drained emerald eyes meet devastated pale blue. 

Arthur doesn't care that his voice breaks, that his weakness shows. 

"Please, Buchanan... _Please come with me."_

You smile at him, but it doesn't reach your eyes.

A sharp ache simmers in his chest.

Your hands come to rest around his wrists, squeezing reassuringly. 

"You're making this worse than it is, Morgan. Pinkerton’s find new playthings every other week. You really think that lot will get obsessed with me?"

"What do you think he does with the playthings that don't amuse him anymore?"

"Guess I'll find out, huh?"

A throat clears loudly behind them. 

Your hands fall gracefully back to your sides, but Arthur is much more reluctant to let go.

"Darling? I’m having a few of the boys bring Morgan’s horse around from the barn. Don’t keep me waiting too long now."

"Yes, sir."

Andrew smirks, a cruel and twisted thing that Arthur wants to mangle until his face is unrecognizable. 

"I... I’d better get going. Don't really feel like testing the extent of the bastard’s patience this early on."

You pointedly avoid looking in his eyes, your heart shattering with every pleading word and heartbroken look, stepping around him, bracing yourself for whatever The Pinkerton’s are cooking-up for van der Linde’s lieutenant.

"... I won't let 'em have you.”

Arthur’s voice is quiet, but the determination in the words is louder than thunder.

You fight the urge to shake your head, to tell him to drop it, that you’d climbed out of rabbit holes much worse than this, would only be a matter of time before you’re sauntering back to camp with at least $25,000 (these pompous bastards aren’t exactly subtle about their fiscal situation - well, technically, the lack thereof.)

But you can’t say any of this aloud. 

You don’t know who’s listening, and one slip of the tongue could result in having yours cut out of your mouth.

"Don't do anything stupid, okay? Straight back to camp, pack-up and move. He’ll get bored with me in a few days, so you, Hosea and Dutch need to find someplace safe.”

You offer him one last smile before turning back to the cabin. 

_"Buchanan!"_

The courage and bravado that had failed him for months - the confidence that evaporated the second your striking green eyes meet his because there‘s absolutely no chance that you’d have feelings for someone like him - is mustered-up in that moment, as Arthur cups your face in his calloused hands and kissed you.

“I’ll be back. I promise you. Don’t do anything reckless. Don’t...  Don’t die.”

This time, the laugh that bubbles out of your mouth is that beautiful chime that Arthur would move mountains to hear - but he doesn’t have much time to dwell on this fact when you kiss the corner of his mouth, your smile warm and tender against his chapped lips.

“That’s my line, cowboy.”

** _ ii.  _ **

**Three Weeks Later.**

This wasn't happening.

This isn’t happening. 

His worst nightmares could never have prepared him for this.

The barrel of his gun digs mercilessly into her your, a hiss escaping through your clenched teeth.

"Rather impressive how you emaciated the fools I once called my lackeys. In all honesty, had you not killed them, I would've eradicated the incompetent imbeciles myself. But I digress. How many rounds do you have left in that weapon?" 

Arthur doesn't say anything, can't stop staring at the bruises painted across every visible inch of skin and the blood leaking out of your nose and mouth.

"Enough to take you out, you sick fuck."

Milton clicks his tongue, shaking his head in disapproval.

"Such inappropriate language in front of a lady. Don't you think, beautiful?"

You’re having a hard time breathing from the last beating, the blood clogging your nostrils, lodged in your throat, but you have enough strength to spit out a bitter, "Fuck off."

He sighs. 

“What a pity. Such a dirty mouth on such a gorgeous girl."

Arthur is doing his best to stay calm, but it's damn-near impossible as the seconds tick by. 

"Let her go."

One side of his mouth curls in a smirk, his dark eyes gleaming with sinful mirth. 

"I will... Under one condition."

Arthur grits his teeth, his jaw twitching in exasperation.

If there‘s one thing Arthur Morgan did not do, it was negotiate with degenerate pieces of shit.

"Shoot her."

The floor is taken from beneath him, sucking the breath from his lungs, leaving him scrambling, desperate, for purchase.

"What?"

"You have at least one bullet left. I trust you have the accuracy not to hit anything vital. Shoot her."

"Yer fuckin’ insane."

"If you don't shoot her, I will - and you can believe when I say that my shot will be fatal. So very few survive a bullet to the skull."

Milton nudges his revolver against your cheek, the metal skating across your skin before crashing into your jaw with a resounding crack.

_"Don't you fucking touch her!"_ Arthur roars, blood scalding in his veins, heart pounding mercilessly in his chest. 

_Don't hurt her._

_Don’t you fucking dare. _

_She's everything._

"The longer you take, the shorter time she has to live. From what I’ve heard - and the number of men I’ve lost - you're a good shot, Morgan. You won't hit any major organs. The pain you inflict won't be worse than anything she's suffered in the last few weeks." 

"Shoot. Her."

_'Pull the trigger.'_

These words aren’t said aloud, but from how long you and Arthur have been working together, he can easily make-them out in your eyes - stoic and unflinching. 

Arthur blinks the tears from his eyes, but his hands won't stop shaking.

"I can't do this." 

You smile at him, but with the blood seeping down the side of her face, down your nose, out of your ear, it looks  wrong .

"It's okay, Arthur... Everything... Everything’s going to be okay."

Milton pulls the hammer back. 

He cradles her face in one hand, holding the gun in the opposite, finger poised over the trigger and twitching at the opportunity of bloodshed.

That's when Arthur forces himself to swallow his anxiety, his fear, his horror...

And his finger closes over the trigger of his revolver. 

The shot echoes throughout the room, ringing through his ears and rattling his bones. 

His hand shakes from the recoil of the fire.

The bullet was going to hit your shoulder. 

Arthur is a fucking marksman with his guns, especially his revolver. That shot was aimed right at your shoulder. Nothing more than a flesh wound, Arthur repeated viciously to himself, thought it didn’t alleviate the pain of hurting the person he loved more than anything in this fucked-up world any easier.

He should‘ve known better.

Should‘ve known that piece of fucking scum would never have made things so simple. 

Should‘ve expected what happened next.

For a moment, everything is still. Smoke billows from his gun from his shot. The air is suffocating, thick with smoke and weighted down by this tension. 

And then the smoke clears.

The hole that should be in your shoulder is instead smack in the middle of your chest. 

Your eyes are open, the shock of the shot displayed in your wide eyes and slack mouth, the force rendering your muscles tense, before the pain registers and you collapse to the concrete floor in a heap of bloodied, bruised limbs.

Arthur’s heart plummets through the center of the earth. 

The blood running through his veins turns to ice, burns freezing hot under his skin.

Milton laughs. 

Laughs .

For a few fleeting moments, Arthur can't stop staring at you. Staring at your motionless body. Staring at the broken body of the girl who is his everything. Staring at the carnage that he inflicted, forced by a sadistic bastard, but was ultimately caused by himself.

And Arthur has never been so enraged.

"You absolute fool, did you really think—"

That's as far as Milton gets before Arthur’s empties the rest of his ammunition. Face, torso, groin - he fires until the bastard is unrecognizable. 

Until his corpse was just a heap of bits of flesh and bone. 

Until his trigger clicked uselessly, out of ammunition, and the reality of the situation hits him like a ton of bricks.

His gun clatters to the floor.

He rushes to you, slicing through the ropes binding your wrists and ankles with trembling hands.

A sob cracks his lips apart as he finds the skin beneath chafed and bleeding. 

“Buchanan. _Buchanan, _ _ say something .” _

The silence tears him apart. 

Pressing two shaky fingers to your throat, Arthur finds a pulse. 

Slow and faint, but it's beneath his fingertips and that's all that matters. 

Blood seeps out of the center of your chest, oozing freely from the wound. The wound caused by his gun. Fired by his hand.

Arthur’s going to be sick.

"No, no, no, no, no. Don't do this to me, darlin’."

Arthur presses his shaking hands to your chest, to staunch the blood flow, to stop the life from seeping out of you. 

The wince that pinches your face and the sharp, cracked inhale of breath that‘s as close to a hiss as you can give when he applies more pressure gives him a debilitating pang in his chest, has him choking out an apology.

Blood trickles out of the corner of your mouth, the brilliant red color a sharp contrast to your sickly pale skin.

What had they done to you?

You didn’t have a single ounce of fat or muscle on your bones.

How could they do this much damage - turning you into a walking, talking skeleton, painted with bruises, adorning more broken bones than he could stand to count, leaking blood from your mouth and nose like it’d never stop. 

_"John! Get the horses! Now!"_

Arthur’s scream carries, loud and frantic, over the staircase. 

The response is muffled by the blood rushing through his ears, but it must’ve been an affirmative response, because he hears the faint, scrambling footsteps distantly. 

Arthur didn’t mask the desperation in his voice, wonders how bad he must have sounded for John not to come down and see for himself what had become of their dynamite, to ask what‘d happened. 

"Yer gonna be okay, sweetheart. Yer gonna be fine." 

Arthur wishes that his voice didn’t crack. Wishes that he can be strong for you, because this was your hour of need, but he couldn't even keep it together.

"Arthur..."

"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I couldn't let him kill you. I couldn't let that happen. I didn't mean for this to happen," Arthur gasps through his tears.

Delicate hands rest atop his. 

"'S not... Your fault... Wanted you to..."

"No... Sweetheart, d-don't do this to me."

John’s voice filters down the stairs, saying that Charles is fetching the horses, that Javier’s running to the closest town to find the doctor and get him ready for her.

"Five minutes. Gimme five minutes, angel.  _Please._ Please don't leave me."

Your blood seeps through the cracks in his fingers.

"... Missed you." 

Your voice is quiet, so quiet that Arthur’s ears strain to hear it. But he's clinging to every word like a drowning man would a buoy. Because that‘s what you are to him. 

What keeps him afloat. 

What keels him  alive.

"God, baby girl \- I missed you so much. I thought about you everyday. Boys never stopped asking about you. You're gonna have a hell of an inquisition when you wake up." 

Arthur’s forced chuckle, a pathetic attempt to try and diffuse the severity of the situation, dries up in his throat when you give him a smile. 

The smile that Arthur hadn't seen in  weeks. 

Warmth unfurls in his chest at the sight, and with tears streaming down his face, he's smiling along with you, fighting back tears as your choppy breaths strain to mimic something normal.

Even at Death’s Door, you refuse to show any sign of weakness, like you’ve had this under control the whole time and this is simply part of the plan.

The blood pooling out of your stomach, however, is the furthest thing from control. 

His hands are over the wound - trembling, desperate, sticky. 

Your blood seeps through his fingers, and he bites his bottom lip hard enough to break skin and draw blood. That much blood‘s never meant to be anywhere outside the human body.

He scrambles for his satchel, spilling its contents out, thanking the stars above for the bandages and alcohol that fall out.

But this... 

This is bad. 

This is  _really_ bad. 

He must‘ve nicked an artery. Something major. Because he's never seen you bleed this much. 

God, you’re so pale. 

“Hold on, darlin’. Yer gon’ be okay. Yer gon’ be just fine.”

He isn't sure if he's trying to convince you or himself, but when his voice cracks pitifully at the end, he doesn't think he succeeds in convincing either of you.

“Stay with me, honey. Open them beautiful eyes.” 

The only thing that he can hear is his heart pounding in his ears, like waves crashing violently against the shore. 

“You can't leave me...  Please.”

** _ iii.  _ **

**One Week Later.**

“What— what the hell are you doing?!” 

Arthur did  not  shriek, but it was damn near close to it because you’d just been eviscerated not three days ago, and here you are, walking (i.e. limping) around like a cripple with an agenda.

“Leaving.”

“Buchanan, look - I know I've got the title of the gang’s big, dumb fool, but you're takin’ the prize for stupidity here.”

You don’t seem to hear him. 

Or if you do, you ignore him completely, because you’ve got your ja key in your arms, don’t so much as blink at the blood soaked into the material -  your blood, that seeped out you for who-knows-how-long, that was mingled with his tears because he couldn't lose you, not you,  _ never you . _

“Get back in bed.”

“Can't.”

“Why?”

“I have business to take care of.”

_“Like hell you do!”_

Arthur knows he‘s an intimidating character, that he has a hulking figure and bulky frame that could make the strongest of men think twice, so he musters every ounce of strength he has and roots himself in the threshold of the door, hands braced against the frame, almost like he's trying to keep the world outside as much as he wants to keep you in.

“Arthur, you're treading on  very thin ice,” you warn tersely, voice so low that its more of a snarl.

“Buchanan. Get. Back. In. Bed.”

Though you’d been gutted and exsanguinated, you find the strength to snatch the collar of his jacket in your calloused fingers, shove him back against the doorframe.

He's taken aback by the ferocity burning in your eyes.

“Don’t.  I’m not a child and you aren’t my father. I appreciate you coming for me - more than you’ll ever know, because I know Dutch didn’t plan that rescue mission, would’ve shed crocodile tears but moved-on as easy as you please. But the fact of the matter is, I should’ve died in that basement. I’m not going to lie around while the sick fucks who had me chained for weeks are walking around.” 

“Buchanan, you don’t get it... I watched you bleed out... I... I didn't know if you were going to make it... I couldn't do anything. I just sat there and watched you die.”

“Art...”

“Please... Just...  Please.  Rest. For a few days, okay? I couldn’t... I don’t... _I can’t lose you.” _

These words render you speechless. Your blood burns hot in your veins, works its way up - not out of anger for being told to stay, but at the sincerity in his voice.

“I... Okay.”

** _iv._ **

What do you do when someone you care for so much is wasting away in front of you?

You haven’t eaten in days, haven’t had an actual meal in weeks. 

Your muscles are withering, skin stretched tight over your bones.

“Honey, you’ve gotta eat something,” Arthur pleads with you, scavenging through an assortment of snacks and sweets that you used to share together, but had been gathering dust as of late.

“I'm fine, Art.”

The response is flat, automatic - he'd heard you say this so much that he was well-aware that you’re anything but.

“Buchanan, I can see yer ribs through yer shirt. All of ‘em.” 

“You checking me out, Arthur Morgan? I'm flattered.”

He scowls at you, to which you laugh.

“Haven't you heard? Emaciated is the latest fad.”

“That ain’t funny.”

“Of course it is. You just can’t see the humor because you forgot your reading glasses back at camp.” 

He'd chew you out, but you’re doing what you do best. 

Deflecting. 

And he falls for it constantly, but he can't this time. 

Because this is serious.

You‘re skeletal.

•

You go into fights without an inkling of thought.

You come out of them with gashes and bruises and bullet wounds that could've been avoided - had been plenty of times before - if you’d been in the right state of mind.

But you’re out for blood. 

He just didn't realize until it was almost too late that you didn't care if it was your own.

** _ v. _ **

Hosea notices first.

You’ve got the rest of the camp fooled that everything’s okay, that everything’s just fine, that your week and spare change with the O’Driscoll’s was little more than a horrible slumber party with terrible hosts.

Only... 

It wasn’t just that.

It was much, much worse.

But they don’t need to know - nobody needs to know.

Because nothing happened. 

That’s what you tell yourself, at least. 

You think the more you repeat it, it’ll stick in your head, be branded in your skull. 

The lie will sink-in as truth.

You’re about to slink off at the crack of dawn - go hunt for game, check out the bounties in the closest town where you weren’t a bounty, do something that would benefit the gang - your family - to prove your worth because you’d been gone for twelve whole days, you’ve got a lot to make-up for—

“Sweet Pea?” 

The voice startles you, regardless of how quiet and gentle it is, and you whip around to see Hosea standing a few feet away.

“Jesus, Uncle Hosea -  _please_ don’t do that,” you sigh, your hand clenching your racing heart with tight fingers, trying to calm it down to something vaguely normal.

You’re glad you hadn’t loaded your rifle yet, because the fact that he’d appeared out of thin air would’ve had you firing on the spot.

Damn.

Damn those fucking savages that call themselves Pinkerton’s.

Least, they used to.

“Early morning?” Hosea asks, eying your bag and holstered weapons.

“Thought I’d go check out the traps for the small game, bring ‘em back for breakfast.” 

“Would you mind a bit of company?”

“I’d be honored, Uncle Hosea.” 

He smiles at you, but there’s something in the curve of his mouth that has alarm bells deafening your ears. 

•

By the time the two of you have emptied the traps, plucking off a couple of rabbits and a single deer for more food, stashing the smaller hauls in bags behind Percival’s saddle. 

“Buchanan...”

“Hosea?” 

“What happened with The Pinkerton’s?”

You’d known that this was coming. 

As much as you wished it wasn’t, Hosea was nothing if not a sharp, brilliant, persistent man. 

That, on-top of the fact that he’s known you since you’d been old enough to walk, means you never had as much as a chance to hide it from him. 

“Beat the daylights out of me. Thought they’d get answers the harder they hit. Don’t know if they’re aware that they hit like children—“

“Honey...” 

“They... The first couple of days, they just beat me, but then they started gettin’ handsy... One of ‘em was messin’ with my clothes, feelin’ me up, said that there were plenty of ways to get me to talk. Get me to scream. 

He tore off my shirt, ripped my pants open, stuck his tongue down my throat... Bit it right off. One of his friends tried to stop the bleeding, but he was a goner. The third one planned to pick-up where he left-off, but then there was a gunshot. 

I thought... First, I thought it was you or Dutch or Arthur, right in the nick of time. But it was Allan. Allan-fucking-Pinkerton himself. He said they could beat me black and blue, but they couldn’t  touch me. That I was his. And he...” 

You can’t finish the sentence.

Every day, it was beatings.

Every night, it was with your pants torn to shreds, that bastard forcing your legs open, shoving himself inside, hissing about your heat, how tight you were, how he was going to ruin you for whoever was waiting back for you with the van der Linde’s.

You don’t say any of this. 

You don’t have to. 

Hosea can piece it together. 

“Oh, darling... You’re okay, sweet girl... You’re safe. They’ll never touch you again. We made sure about that.”

“You can’t tell anyone...  You can’t tell Arthur.”

“Honey, you don’t have anything to be—“

_“Please, Uncle Hosea.”_

“… I won’t tell anyone, sweetheart. I promise. But please… Please don’t blame yourself. You didn’t do a single thing wrong. This wasn’t your fault. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

•

Within an hour, both of you return to camp, where you promptly tell Dutch that you’ll be leaving for a few days to see what you could find in the nearby towns.

You leave without saying goodbye to Arthur.

He wasn’t awake yet, and you didn’t want to disturb him.

He’d understand...

Right?

** _ vi. _ **

**Two Weeks Later.**

Takes you fourteen days for the reality of the last three months to sink-in and for you to truly  break.

You’re in a fighting ring - violent but soothing, painful but grounding, dangerous but safe - beneath a tavern that’s boisterous enough that your extracurricular activities wouldn’t be heard or, more importantly, disrupted and/or accosted by the sheriff.

You’ve found yourself slinking down here at night, your days spent helping out around town, stealing from folks that would never notice, could easily get it back, selling animal skins you’d procured from the forest early in the mornings, earning more than enough money so that your leave wouldn’t be construed as a selfish getaway.

You have a family to take care of. You’ve been gone for two whole weeks. You aren’t going back empty-handed. 

But it’s when you’re beating the shit out of a bastard who didn’t only fight dirty - he started getting handsy. 

And you’re taken back to a dingy cabin, ropes binding your limbs, acrid breath scalding your neck as he fucks you, over and over and over— 

You’re able to switch positions, rolling over sharply, so that you’re straddling him, your thighs squeezing his sides so hard that there’s the unmistakable crunch of bone, but that isn’t enough, because it isn’t the face of a grimy, nameless stranger beneath you, but that of the bastard who tied you to his bed, tore your clothes off, wrenched your legs open, determined to break you, to see you cry, to make you scream—

Everything fades to white noise as you snatch his collar in your left hand and bring your right hand, curled into a vicious fist, down across his face, over and over, pummeling him until you can’t tell if the sickening crack of bone is from his face or your knuckles, because you can’t feel anything but wrath, shame, violation.

Someone hoists you off of him - the bastard’s face is unrecognizable, caved-in from the brutality of your anger, nothing more than fleshy mush and bloodied bones - and you react anything but well.

“Get the fuck off me!”  You seethe, twisting in their grip, mangled fingers bunching in the lapel of their jacket, ready to throttle them to the gates of oblivion.

But just as your fist is about to collide with their cheek, you recognize those unmistakable pale baby blues that - three weeks ago - you thought you’d never see again.

“Buchanan, stop! It’s me! It’s Arthur!” 

His voice is soft, more tender than you’ve ever heard it, with his hands outstretched in front of him, like he’s trying to soothe a wild animal.

That’s what you are by this point, isn’t it?

The shell of what you once were.

A beast that knows nothing but the hunger for blood and the lust for violence. 

Horrified by this - by the realization that you’re more beast than human, that you’re losing what little shreds of sanity you had left, that you nearly assaulted the person you love more than anything in this world - you do what any sensible person would do.

You run.

** _ vii. _ **

You’ve never run that fast in your life.

You sprint out of the tavern, into the streets, ducking through alleyways, darting in-and-out of the nooks and crannies of this town without thinking about it.

You run so fast for so long that you crumble into a mess of bruised limbs and bloodied fists by the outskirts of town, not because your body was shutting down, but your mind wasn’t letting you think straight, that you barreled into something and it wasn’t until you hit the ground that you realized you aren’t breathing right.

You’re hyperventilating.

Your breath is coming in too fast for your lungs, scraping in air so desperately that your throat burns.

You can feel his hands tying your wrists and ankles to the bedposts, his fingers tearing at the seams of your clothing, his body crushing yours beneath his weight.

“Buchanan... Buchanan, look at me.”

Tears burn behind your eyes, but you won’t let them fall. He’s taken everything else from you, but you won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you cry.

“Darlin’, please...” 

There’s a scream tucked under your throat, coiled tight beneath your chin, but you know that if you start, you won’t stop.

“Baby, it’s me... It’s Arthur.” 

“... How did you find me?”

“Hosea told me.”

The blood in your veins that was boiling from anger, rushing from adrenaline, turns to ice so quickly that your bones chill to the marrow.

_“What?”_

“He said you’d been feelin’ caged back at camp, that you’d headed to town for a change of scenery, a few extra dollars.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, barely manage not to choke on it.

Hosea’d never break a promise. 

“Buchanan, I... I’ll leave you alone. I won’t touch you. You don’t even have to talk to me. I ain’t sure what I did, but please... Please come back to camp with me... I was worried sick about you.”

_I **am** worried sick about you. _

“Art, no, it’s not— it isn’t— you didn’t do anything wrong— it’s— I can’t—”

_I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t stop thinking about him. I can’t stop seeing the bastard who’s been dead for three weeks anytime I close my eyes._

“Is it... Is it okay if I touch you, sweetheart?”

_Fuck, I wanna hug you so bad, Art... Never let go, but if you knew... You’d never wanna touch me again._

You don’t know you’ve said this aloud until his eyes widen and his hands start reaching for you.

“If I knew what?”

_Fuck._

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

The fight-or-flight instinct is rearing its head, but Arthur’s known you for years, has seen the muscles in your toned form ripple and your joints shift for when you’re about to hightail it out.

He isn’t going to let you run away again. 

“Sweetheart, you couldn’t be further from the truth. I haven’t felt you in so long... There ain’t nothing in this world I want more than to hold you again.” 

“Sorry... I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—“

Arthur takes you in his arms, cutting off your rambling, leaving you slumped against the wall, encased in strong arms, feeling safe, protected, loved.

Your arms are around his shoulders, your face buried in his throat, the tears burning in your eyes spilling out like a bottle shaken to the point of bursting.

Calloused fingers gingerly comb through your hair, untangling the bloodied, sweaty strands, rub soothing circles into your back.

Seconds, minutes, hours could’ve passed, but neither of you would’ve noticed. It isn’t until your eyes are dry, emptied of every last tear, and your breathing slowly but surely starts to even out that Arthur speaks, his voice thick and heavy with something you can’t pinpoint.

“Let’s go get settled at the hotel, huh? You deserve a nice, hot bath after beating that piece of shit within an inch of his life.”

This garners a laugh out of you - raspy, but real.

Arthur smiles. 

** _ viii. _ **

He knows that his feelings could not be more wrong.

Knows that the feelings he's harboring for a witty, lethal, beautiful girl that’s thirteen-years younger than him shouldn’t exist. 

But in this moment, when your impossibly green eyes shine from unshed tears, your shoulders trembling like there's an earthquake but you’re the only person that can feel it, your bottom lip quivering so bad that you’re about to draw blood from how hard you’re biting it, he can't stop himself.

Strong, bulky arms wrap around your lithe frame, pulling you against his chest, hugging you tightly. 

You don’t say anything, but the hands scrambling around his waist tell him that this was the right move - that he didn’t cross any boundaries, especially after everything you’d told him, about what had really happened in the weeks it’d taken to find you - finding purchase in fisting bunches of his shirt.

"It's all right, darlin’..." He murmurs into your ear, carding his fingers through your wavy hair. 

The sniffles that reach his ears crack his heart in two, his hold around you tightening.

“No one’s ever gon’ touch you again, angel. Ever. That’s a promise.” 

•

You aren’t crying, but you’re trembling so fiercely that he cradles you as tightly as he can, fearing that if he doesn’t, you‘d fall to pieces.

“You’re okay... You’re safe,” Arthur murmurs against your temple, his lips brushing against the cut you’d earned in the fighting ring mere hours ago, one of a handful 

Your breath stutters against his throat, and he can feel his heart crack.

He wants to tell you that everything is going to be okay, but you’ve never lied to each other, and Arthur doesn’t want to break your heart a second time.

“I’ve got you, baby girl.”

He doesn’t know if that means much, as much as he hopes it does, but when your fingers bunch in his jacket and you crumble into the sanctity of his arms, he thinks it’s enough. 

** _ ix. _ **

“Why did you leave...?” Arthur asks, once you’ve had a hot bath with the help of two innkeepers - of whom, you know rather intimately, who laugh and giggle and flush whenever you drop-by, who rushed to your side when they’d seen you limping inside the hotel, Arthur’s arm around your waist being the only thing keeping you upright, the innkeeper showing Arthur to your room for the night while the girls whisked you off to the bath to clean you up, bandage your wounds and get you a fresh change of clothes. 

You stare down at the floor, like a child fumbling for something to say that wouldn’t sound absolutely ludicrous.

“I... I didn’t want you to see me like that... I was able to hold it together long enough to give Hosea and Dutch as many details about any plans I’d overheard, but when I left camp for a breather, I just... broke.” 

A silence falls over the room. It isn’t awkward, there’s never been such a thing between you two, but Arthur’s tongue burns, urging him to say something - but he doesn’t know where to start, if he should say anything, if you’d rather talk about it later because you’d been in a fighting ring for the last five hours (according to the bartender, who’d handed Arthur your winnings for the night - his eyes bulged out of his skull at the thick money clip in his hand, he can’t even imagine how many people you’d taken down for that much cash) and you must be exhausted. 

You take the decision out of his hands when you break the silence, the words soft and sincere. 

"Thank you. For... For everything."

The tears from earlier that night, back in the gritty, bloodied basement of the bar, shine in your impossibly green eyes, but they aren't angry or bitter. 

He doesn't know how to explain the emotion swirling in those jade pools, a mixture of happiness and sadness and something so raw that it makes his heart clench. 

Without a single word, he takes your hand, lacing your fingers together, and tugs you - confused, emotional, surprised - to his chest, holding you close, not tight enough to be constricting or claustrophobic, but just so that he can have you in his arms, flush against his chest, where your heart beats strong and steady against his ribcage, of which is threatening to crack from how hard his heart thunders against the bone.

You don’t waste a second, sore arms from fighting for hours coming up to reach around his middle, squeezing so hard that he’s convinced you think he’ll slip through the cracks in the floorboard if you didn’t hold him tight enough.

You bury your face in his shoulder, inhaling shakily, fingers boring into the leather material of his jacket, but when Arthur’s arms tighten around you, holding you closer, the tension melts out of your muscles and you go limp against him.

“You’ve got nothin’ to thank me for, Buchanan... Christ, you shouldn’t be thankin’ me. The hell you endured to keep me safe—“

You pull away sharply, not so far that your embrace was broken, but enough for you to look him in the eye.

“Don’t. Don’t do that. Don’t feel guilty. I’m the one who pledged her life to those sick bastards, remember? You’re the one who tried to goad me out of it. Those... colorful assumptions I had weren’t far from the mark. But none of that was your fault. Fuck, Arthur - you’re the reason I’m alive. Was only a matter of time before Pinkerton got tired of using me for fun and would’ve started pulling teeth and chopping off fingers for information.”

Arthur’s teeth gnash in his mouth, threatening to tear-up his gums, at the insinuation in those words, his fingers twitching at the thought of killing each and every last Pinkerton with his bare hands, feeling the life drain out of them, punching them again and again and a g a i n - until their faces are unrecognizable heaps of mangled flesh and bone.

But your touch - firm, grounding, reassuring - eases him out of that dark, vengeful headspace (for now), a bandaged hand cupping his jaw, thumb stroking through his stubbled cheek. 

“So, I’ll say it again... Thank you, Arthur. For coming for me. For saving me. For not giving up on me... Even after I’d given up on myself.” 

Heat spreads across his face - dusting his cheeks a hot shade of pink, before spreading further, from the slope of his throat to his collarbones, the sinful collarbones that you’ve thought about licking and nipping at  way too many times to be healthy. 

To your surprise (as well as unabashed satisfaction), Arthur tangles a hand in your hair, gingerly angling your face up, and kisses your forehead.

“I’ll always be there for you, baby girl. Always.” 

A shiver unravels down your spine, that Arthur feels against the palm of his hand that’s resting on the small of your back. 

He’s about to ask if you’re okay, step away and give you space, doesn’t want to break boundaries - especially when he doesn’t know what you are and aren’t comfortable with yet - but you must feel his body tensing, because within seconds, your fingers curl around the nape of his neck and you’re kissing him.

A soft, muffled noise is shared between you - Arthur isn’t sure who made it, but in that moment, he doesn’t particularly care because your lips are much too distracting and delicious for him to think coherently.

As long as Arthur’s wanted -  craved \- this, he lets you take the lead, not wanting to overwhelm you with an onslaught of raw, buried feelings, his hands coming up to cradle your face. 

Your lips are a drug - fucking addicting. 

Arthur changes the tempo - from hard and passionate to gentle and loving, not wanting to push things too fast, to ruin this before it even started because he couldn’t keep his libido in-check when you’re obviously still hurting, moving his hands from your cheeks to absentmindedly brush his thumbs along your jaw, making you shiver. 

You’re the one who breaks the kiss first, inhaling air slowly, shakily, like it’s a rare commodity that has to be rationed. 

Arthur doesn’t push, hands cradling your face delicately, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones, trailing down to your swollen, cherry-red lips. 

“We don’t have to go further than this, baby girl.”

When your eyes open, heat pools - hot and heavy - in his stomach, the green of your irises eclipsed by the black of your pupils.

“You don’t want to?”

Though your words are casual, Arthur would have to be blind and deaf to miss the hurt in your voice. 

“I do. More than you know. But I don’t... I don’t want to take advantage of you. I don’t want you to regret this in the morning.”

“Arthur, I’ve wanted you since the day you found me miles outside of Strawberry five years ago. I appreciate your chivalry, I do - in the world we‘re living in, I thought it’d died out a long time ago. But that night, when... When I told you to go back to camp and you kissed me...”

Heat flushes your cheeks an adorable hue of red, but when he realizes that it’s out of embarrassment and insecurity, it’s like his heart’s been doused in gasoline and someone dropped a match down his throat. 

“I-I mean, if— if you want that to be a, y’know, a one-time thing, I get it. Tensions were high and emotions were hot. Doesn’t mean that we have to make a thing out of—“

That‘s the moment he lost it.

Lost every ounce of self-control that he'd exercised for years because he was petrified of losing her if his less-than-platonic feelings were unrequited.

Because in that moment, there isn’t a single doubt in his mind that you’re going to apologize for kissing him (even though he’d returned the kiss whole-heartedly, even though he’s the one who kissed you first all those weeks ago), to sweep this under the rug so things could go back to normal - platonic.

But the thing is, he doesn’t  want  things to go back to being platonic.

Before another word could escape from your mouth, he silences you with his lips. 

And not the gentle brush of the lips like earlier, either. 

He’s kissing you as if this would be the last time. Hell, for all he knew, it just might be. The mere idea of that makes it very difficult to think coherently. 

You don’t waste any time, your tongue running along his bottom lip, slowly licking your way into his mouth.

The strangled moan that meets his ears when your tongues collide has him groaning, because  Jesus-fucking-Christ , you taste so fucking good and the soundsyou make are more beautiful than a symphony.

Briefly, because air is a necessity to his burning lungs, he breaks away from your lips and breathes out a single word.

Your name.

A broken sound - a whimper - escapes from your bruised lips, making him swallow thickly. 

"You okay, angel?“

His voice sounds raw and wrecked to his own ears. 

The things that you do to him...

Your hands, which had been bunched in the collar of his shirt, come up to wind around his neck.

"Better than okay... Better than I’ve been in a long time, believe it or not.”

You laugh, breathless, your forehead resting against his, eyes closed as you catch your breath. 

“Good. That’s... Damn, that’s music to my ears.”

The smile you give him at this confession smolders that aching fire from before into a passionate inferno that warms him from his joints to his bone marrow. 

You rest your head against his shoulder, your arms falling to loosely wrap around his waist, sighing quietly - contentedly - when his fingers slide into your hair, your body flush against his, your lips brushing against his pulse. 

“... I love you, Arthur.”

His heart stops.

“You... You don’t... Do you really mean that?”

He can’t help the disbelief coloring his voice. There’s another reason why he‘d been terrified of confessing his feelings - because he’s had his heart broken so many times that he was positive that if it happened one more time, he’d cut himself trying to pick up the pieces. 

"More than anything I’ve said in my life. You make me happier than I thought I could ever be, than I thought I deserved to be. You make me feel safe, safer than I‘ve ever felt in the twenty-three years I’ve walked this earth. When we’re together, I feel like we can take on the world. When I’m with you, I... I’m home.” 

“I love you too, Buchanan...  God, _I love you so damn much.” _

You beam up at him, a dazzling smile that has his pulse skipping, his heart jackhammering, his chest flooding with a warmth so vivid and all-encompassing that he’d swear he’d swallowed the sun...

But he knows that can’t be true.

Because you’re right here in his arms - bright, radiant and gorgeous. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title for this fic is from the eponymous song “Nine Crimes” by Damien Rice. 
> 
> You may or may not recognize this beautiful song from the masterpiece known as Shrek The Third. 
> 
> I may or may not bawl my eyes out whenever I hear it. 
> 
> Am I talking about the song or the movie?
> 
> Who knows? 🤫


End file.
